We’ve been overrun by a legion of "Frankenfoods." Creations like the cronut and the ramen burger are the talk of the nation. But years before these crossbreeds a twinkle in a Frankenchef’s eye, an equally freakish culinary innovation was spreading through Southern California’s taco shops. It’s called the California Burrito, and it’s one of the most elegantly decadent foods you’ve never heard of.

Explain the California Burrito to anyone who isn’t from the San Diego area or under the age of thirty, and you’re met with either bemusement or disgust. Most people are on board with the standard, San Diego-style carne asada burrito: a large flour tortilla filled with grilled steak, cheese, pico de gallo, and, if you’re lucky, guacamole and sour cream. But the California Burrito adds a helping of fries to that equation—yes, wrapped up in the burrito.* It invites skepticism. So seeing as my hometown of San Diego is the nucleus of California Burrito artisanship, I decided to revisit this little-known local delicacy.

The burrito’s origins are unclear. Most credit the Fresh MXN Food chain (formerly and colloquially known as Santana’s) with the burrito’s invention.&#xC2; I called up Gustavo Arellano, author of Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America and noted California Burrito enthusiast, to see if he knew. He told me that the California Burrito did not begin as the burrito we know today. The first of its name was just a standard, Mission-style burrito: a big burrito, with beans, rice, guac, and sour cream. The version with french fries, was first mentioned in New Mexico, of all places. Arellano guessed that the Southwestern chain Roberto’s Taco Shop may have been the burrito’s original inventor: "When I interviewed the son of the founder, they told me that by the ’80s, all of his dad’s taco shops had the California Burrito on their menu...They don’t know who invented it in the chain, but it came from the chain. And given how ubiquitous that chain is in San Diego, I wouldn’t doubt them." Like Roberto’s, many places proudly date their California Burrito offerings to roughly this time period, but others confessed that all of their burritos had been French-fry-free until the mid-2000s.

Gustavo Arellano’s Favorite Cali Burritos

"My favorite California Burrito is from a place in Lake Forest [Orange County] called Albatro’s. Their California Burrito is perfect. They put the right amount of french fries, they fry them perfectly right there, and of course, the smart thing that they do is that they put the cheddar cheese right on the fries, so when they give you the burrito, the cheddar cheese has melted. It’s like this river of cheese, right next to the fries, and then the sour cream—it’s cold, so it cools everything down. My bonus round pick is Lolita’s in San Diego. They offer something called the 2-in-1 burrito, a California Burrito, with taquito inside. It has all the greatness of a California Burrito, with a crunchy taquito, too. It’s Taco Bell before Taco Bell."

In search of the quintessential California Burrito, I visited a half dozen shops across San Diego county, breaking from nearly two years of vegetarianism and braving intense gastric distress in the process:

Fresh MXN Food, alleged inventor of the California Burrito, has a strong but unexceptional offering. Their fries are exquisite: slender, brown, and flavorful, possibly the best out of any of the California Burritos I ate. The meat was serviceable, but unremarkable, though the salsas were fairly lively. The death knell, however, was the homogenous clump of un-melted cheddar cheese, a cardinal sin of Mexican cuisine.

At Don Carlos Taco Shop, I found a Cali Burrito for vegetarians. Don Carlos offers the "Scripps" burrito, with soy chorizo, salsa, sour cream, cheese, and crinkle-cut fries. While soy chorizo can’t replicate the taste of carne asada, it contributes some smoky nuances of its own.

Just a few blocks from Don Carlos, Rigoberto’s Taco Shop offers the > Campe&#xF3;n ("Champion"), a ten-inch-long behemoth filled with high-quality carne, fast-food-style fries, guacamole, pico de gallo, sour cream, and cheese. It was so heavy it ripped the paper bag it came in. The > campe&#xF3;n is ample lunch for two that, at six bucks, is one of the best deals in town.

Easily the most charismatic burrito I ate came from Tortilleria Salsa Market, twenty miles inland. The store doubles as a > carnicer&#xED;a and makes its own tortillas, which alone are worth the trip. There was something magical about the burrito, a robustness of flavor that’s detectable in everything from the char-grilled meat to the tortilla to the square home-fries they use instead of French-fries. Tortilla Salsa Market’s California Burrito would have been the best I tried, were it not for some off-putting gristle in the > carne.

Adalberto’s in the Point Loma neighborhood wins for best burrito. Adalberto’s is near a naval base, and through the course of my twenty-minute meal there a steady stream of officers and cadets, some in full regalia, stopped in for lunch. The meat was quality, the potatoes were just right, and, best of all, the ingredients were evenly distributed throughout the burrito. Adalberto’s also set itself apart from the competition by offering a buffet-style box of greasy, delicious, and apparently complimentary tortilla chips alongside its salsa bar.

It’s easy to dismiss the California Burrito as yet another gringo bastardization of a Mexican recipe. It happens all too often: fresh and lively cuisine arrives Stateside and gets laden with processed cheese, unsettling meat, and dull tortillas. But the California Burrito is a hopeful sign of serendipitous, irreverent cultural interchange. It’s an equalizer: a cylinder the size of an infant, full of Mexican-American meats and starches, that beachcombers, migrant workers, and teenagers all eat side by side in identical particleboard booths across San Diego county.

During my conversation with Gustavo, I told him that an enterprising restaurateur could make a killing with a California Burrito shop feeding late night partiers in a Midwestern college town. He agreed: "If you have frat boys going crazy over Chipotle, and now you tell them, ’Hey, I have a burrito that’s just like that, except it has French fries in it;’ are you telling me that they’re not going to go nuts about it?&#xC2; One day the California Burrito will come your way, and if you’re smart, you will make a fortune. Once Americans discover this, it will become as American as nachos."

* Informed readers will object to the definition of a California Burrito as a construction of carne asada, cheese, salsa, and French fries. Even Gustavo and I disagreed about whether rice and beans were part of an orthodox California. And it’s extremely location-specific: ordering one north of Camp Pendleton will likely get you something filled with scrambled eggs and bell peppers that, while not unappealing, is much more of a breakfast burrito. Some restaurants offer an "Asada Fry" burrito as an attempt to appease both sides. But don’t let the name fool you: You’re eating a California Burrito.

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